Fr Jack Collins' Story
by Kevyn Pieters
Summary: On his way back to Ballykissangel from his mother's funeral in Manchester, Fr Clifford calls on Fr Jack Collins for help in reaching a decision on what to do. This takes place imeediately before the start of "The Reckoning"


**Fr Jack Collins' Story (v2)**

by Kevyn Pieters

_Fr Clifford had been in Manchester to be with his dying mother. During his absence, he had kept in touch with Dr Michael Ryan by telephone, and we can suppose that Michael told him that Assumpta had returned to Ballykissangel without Leo. At the end of "Pack Up Your Troubles" (episode 3-10), Dr Ryan announced Fr Clifford's imminent return and that his mother had died; he gave Assumpta Fr Clifford's phone number in Manchester. I like to think that she did call him in Manchester (see Jen Weitzke's "The Consolation") and that this set him thinking and praying all the harder about the future. _

_This story concerns a visit that Fr Clifford makes to Fr Jack Collins, in Castle Cromartie, on his way back to Ballykissangel. This occurs immediately before the start of "The Reckoning" episode 3-11). Fr Clifford is seeking advice from Fr Collins about his future._

_Fr Collins is one of the other assistant priests in the Cilldargan parish although we never saw him in the broadcast episodes. Fr Clifford spoke to him on the telephone in "Money, money, money" (episode 2-7), when Fr MacAnally was trying to trick them into paying for his new vestments. Later in that same episode, Fr Clifford took a call from Fr Collins letting him know what Fr Mac was really up to. We are told nothing about Fr Collins, except that he could afford to donate £100 to Fr Mac's collection. I have given him the Christian name "Jack", and located him at the church in Castle Cromartie. This was mentioned by Fr MacAnally in the very first episode of Ballykissangel, "Trying to Connect You"; he explained to Fr Clifford that there were four churches in Cilldargan parish: in Cilldargan itself, in Ballykissangel, in Kilmore, and in Castle Cromartie._

Fr Collins took his empty sandwich plate and wine glass through to the kitchen, wiped his greying goatee moustache and beard with his handkerchief, resumed his seat, then unzipped and opened his breviary and began to read the _Morning Prayer_. He liked to keep a strict routine after morning Mass, however unconventional: Mozart or Haydn and orange juice for breakfast, sandwich and white wine for lunch, divine office for dessert.

He had reached the _intercessions_ when the telephone rang. With a sigh, he put down his breviary beside him on the sofa and picked up the handset.

"St Kevin's. Hello?"

"Is that Fr Collins?"

"Yes, it is."

"Hello, this is Peter Clifford. Sorry, Father, I didn't recognise your voice. It's noisy here."

"Good afternoon, Father. I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow. Where are you?"

"The airport. Dublin. I'm back a day early."

"I was so sorry to hear that your mother had died. Are you OK?"

"Yes, thanks, just about." Peter continued, "Father, could I ask a favour of you? Could you spare me a couple of hours this evening? There are some things that I'd like to talk through with you, if you're free that is."

"Yes, of course. When?"

"I could be with you about five, so any time after that."

"Fine, I'll see you at about five, then."

"That's great. Thank you, Father."

"See you later. God bless."

"Thanks. Bye."

Fr Collins pondered what it might be that Peter Clifford could want; he had sounded a little agitated. He reached for his breviary and finished the _Morning Prayer_. Moving the marker ribbon to the day's _Evening Prayer_, he closed up the breviary and carried it across to the bureau.

Next in the routine was the day's post. He had already sorted it into three little piles: personal, parish and circulars. There was just the one item in the personal pile, an early birthday card from Margery, his sister, with some photos of Agnes, his teenage niece, on her new horse. Agnes had made the card; it had on its front a drawing of a decrepit roman centurion after the style of Ronald Searle with the inscription "Felix sit natalis dies XLV" in neat Roman lettering. He couldn't resist a chuckle as he placed the card on top of the bureau. The copy of "Down with Skool" that obviously had inspired the card had originally belonged to Sinead, who had been Agnes's godmother, one of the last things she had done. He looked up at the photograph of Sinead on the mantelpiece. Today would have been their 20th wedding anniversary. In the morning he had offered Mass for the happy repose of her soul. "Bless you my love," he thought as he turned his attention back to the post. He read the circulars and put them in the bin. Finally, there were the parish items, bills and requests for references. It took an hour or so to deal with those.

Waiting in the kitchen for the kettle to boil, he turned his mind to the sermon for next Sunday. He had confessions at 4 p.m. so he had an hour and half to make a start on it. Sipping his hot mug of tea, seated again at the bureau, he consulted the Ordo and looked up the specified readings in his Jerusalem bible: the first reading was from Isaiah – share your bread with the hungry, the second was from 1 Corinthians – Paul's dependence only on knowledge of Jesus, the psalm was 111 – the just man, and the gospel reading was from Matthew – the salt of the earth. He took down his 1995 diary to see what he had preached at the same point in the previous three-year cycle of readings. As he flicked through the pages, a couple of entries caught his attention:

_

* * *

__Heard from Fr Mac today that our new assistant priest (the curate for St Joseph's, Ballykissangel) is to be from England. I picked up that the man is quite young and has had only one parish posting before. Fr Mac is furious. It's his own fault for lobbying the bishop so hard saying that the parish can't function without four priests. Fr O'Malley agrees with me that he and I could have continued to cover St Jo's for a while, permanently, even, if we cut back on our diocesan duties. But Fr Mac seems to think that he can't hold his head up unless he has three curates. It's pure vanity._

_Not sure where the new man will live because Fr Mac has sold the church house to his builder friend, Brian Quigley. I never understood that, not that I want to. _

_A white-coffin requiem today. The parents were so positive, they seemed to be helping the rest of us to bear up. I have never before seen a funeral director in tears; the stony faced gentleman who carried the coffin, not much bigger than a shoe box, into church was quite overcome. _

_I couldn't but help think of my own little one, stillborn and just thrown in a bucket – no opportunity to grieve, no ceremony. I'm glad that things have changed. At least Sinead and Teresa are together now. Bless them. _

_

* * *

_

Finally met Peter Clifford, the new priest at Ballykissangel. After all I had heard about him from Fr Mac, I had expected him to have horns and a tail. But he seems sensible enough, and very approachable. And he seems to be making quite an impact on the village; that must really get up the old man's nose. But there was something odd about him – shyness, perhaps. In conversation, he seemed reluctant to talk about himself – commendable in a way. But is he hiding something?

_He told me the full story of the electric confessional. Hilarious. But I noticed that yet again Fr Mac managed to divert the criticism away from himself. Fr MacTeflon, he should be called. It's a bizarre welcome to Ireland for Peter. What must he think of us?!_

* * *

"Yes, bless them and keep them safe," he said to himself sadly as he dragged his mind back to the problem of his next sermon. Last time this set of readings had come up he had focused on the salt, how it was made and its significance in the society of the period. His chair creaked as he rocked onto its back legs. He stroked his beard as he re-read the passage from Isaiah. "That'll do," he thought to himself, reached for the pad and started writing.

- - -888 - - -

As he walked back and forth across the room, trying the sermon out for length, he heard a knock at the door. Putting his papers down, he walked into the hallway and opened the door."

"Fred!"

"Afternoon, Jack. It's nearly four o'clock and there was no sign of you in the Church, so I just wondered …"

"Yes, you're right, I'd lost track of time. Come on."

They walked together round to the Church. Fred O'Neil was the one person in the parish who called him by his Christian name; they had served together in the Irish Air Corps.

"Would you like to come around for a bite of supper tonight, Jack? I'm slow-roasting some lamb."

"That sounds wonderful, Fred, but I have a visitor coming at five and I'm not sure how long he'll need: Fr Clifford, from Ballykissangel."

"Ah, the Mayday signaller. Well, bring him along, too, if you like. About eight?"

"Can I let you know when he gets here?"

"Yes, that'll be fine. Don't worry if you can't join me."

- - -888 - - -

As they walked, Fr Collins recalled that a few weeks previously, at the height of the Sweating Statues controversy in Ballykissangel, Fr Clifford had stood in for him at a Sunday Mass at St Kevin's. On his return, his parishioners, Fred especially, had been full of it; the accounts given by several parishioners had painted a vivid picture. Fr Clifford had begun Mass with the usual opening remarks, had said how much he enjoyed his occasional visits to St Kevin's and how much he appreciated the welcome they always gave him. But he had added darkly that they would understand why he would prefer to be anywhere other than Ballykissangel just then.

He had warned them that he had changed the readings for the day because he wanted to say something special in the sermon. The first reading was on the Passover from Exodus, the second was the account of the Last Supper from 1 Corinthians, and the Gospel reading was from the discourse on the Bread of Life from John 6, all very familiar to the congregation. When it came to the sermon, Fr Clifford had become very agitated. Instead of preaching from the pulpit, he had put the lectionary away and walked down to the edge of the sanctuary step, standing almost in the midst of the congregation.

"Why are we here?" he had begun, speaking without notes. "What am I doing here?" The sense of urgency in the way he had spoken had captured the attention of the congregation, even the usually sleepy ones.

"Not for the statues, sweating or otherwise, nor for any other supposed miraculous happenings," he had said dismissively in answer to his own questions.

"And what did the bishop have in mind when he consecrated my hands at my ordination as a priest, in return for which I gave my commitment to obey him and to continence and celibacy and to live simply?" He had raised his eyebrows and looked searchingly around the congregation, who had begun to shuffle nervously on their benches; this was not the kind of sermon they were used to. Calm exposition and reflection on the scriptures was what they were used to from Fr Collins. And gentle encouragement and emphasis on the love and mercy of God were what Fr Clifford usually gave them, not passion and urgency like this.

"Not to fill the collection boxes by deception, nor for idolatry, if you will allow me to call a spade a spade!"

"Why, then are we here? What am I doing here? Why do we bother getting out of bed on a Sunday morning?"

"WHY?" he had roared, his voice breaking with emotion. This had come out more loudly than he had intended, startling several in the congregation. He had apologised before continuing in a quieter voice. Pointing behind him to the altar and the tabernacle, he said, "I'll tell you: the Eucharist."

He had paused and brushed tears from his eyes. "It's important. As we heard in the reading from John, many of His followers left Jesus when He taught that His body was to be real food and His blood was to be real drink. He let them go. It was the parting of the ways. It was that important. It is _all important_ for us, today, here in Castle Cromartie, more important than anything else."

"And why is it so important?" He had let the echo of his voice subside, before, again, answering his question: "Because that's how Jesus has chosen to be present to us, intimately present to us as individuals, at Mass, when we receive holy Communion, and when we pray before the Blessed Sacrament."

He went on in a quiet, earnest voice, standing among the congregation, to explain the Eucharist as a relationship, a privileged relationship with God.

He had concluded the sermon with his voice breaking with emotion, "That's why we're here. Not for _anything_ else. Nothing else matters in comparison."

At the end of Mass, before he had given the blessing and dismissal, he had read out the notices that Fr Collins had left for him and then, with an audible tremor in his voice he had asked simply, "And, of your charity, would you remember me in your prayers."

Telling Fr Collins about it on his return, Fred had remarked that the tone of the sermon and that request for prayers had been the clearest spiritual 'Mayday' signal he could conceive of. "That poor man needs help, Jack," he had observed.

Several parishioners had asked him if he could go over what Fr Clifford had said so that they could understand it better. That had really impressed Fr Collins – they had never asked for follow-up on one of his own sermons. Initially, he had hesitated to follow up Fred's 'Mayday' comment – he knew that at least part of Fr Clifford's difficulties stemmed from his disagreements with their parish priest, and he dreaded crossing Fr MacAnally. Eventually, he had decided to call Fr Clifford only to find that he had already gone away on retreat.

- - -888 - - -

Peter Clifford had arrived in Castle Cromartie early, and was sitting next to his rucksack on the bench by the front door of the presbytery, waiting for Fr Collins to return. As Fr Collins approached, Peter smiled at his resemblance to Lenin, with the pointed beard at his prominent chin, the large forehead and the short grey hair at his temples.

As Fr Collins busied himself in the kitchen making tea, Peter looked at the photographs around the study. One that caught his eye was of a young man with a bushy handlebar moustache in military uniform standing in front of a helicopter with on his arm a good-looking girl with "updo" dark hair. Next to it on the mantelpiece was a framed United Nations medal. He looked more closely at the figure in the photo: he could see the pilot's brevet and the two stripes on the uniform epaulettes. There was a facial resemblance to Fr Collins, but the forage cap atop the substantial quiff made this seem unlikely; perhaps it was a brother.

Fr Collins re-entered the room with the tea tray.

Peter pointed to the photograph and asked, "Father is that a relative in the photo?"

"No, it's me. I had more hair then!"

"You have a gorgeous girl on your arm."

"That's Sinead. We met when I was at Flying School in Gormanston; she taught at the local College.

"Is that a Bell helicopter?"

"You mean the Bell 47, the "whirlybirds" thing? No, no …" he said laughing "- that was a two-seater and fair-weather-only. It's an Alouette III. It was quite good for it's day and suited the work we had to do, good visibility and very reliable, and room for five passengers or a couple of stretcher cases."

"What work was that?"

"It varied quite a lot - VIP transport, troop transport, police and army cooperation - patrolling the border mainly -, and the occasional rescue or medical evacuation."

"Where were you based?"

"Casement, Baldonnel … about ten miles south west of Dublin."

"Is the UN medal yours, too?"

"Yes, I did a tour of duty out in the Egyptian desert as part of the UNEF 2 peace-keeping mission in 1978." He pointed to the medal ribbon and explained, "the yellow band represents the desert and the two thin blue lines in the middle are the Suez Canal".

"Did you enjoy flying?"

"Oh yes! The Air Corps is quite small and we aircrew thought of ourselves as the elite. I am afraid we affected the swagger of the 1940's British RAF. In the late 1940's the Corps even had some ex-RAF aircraft, including a few Spitfires. But from the 1950s on, we equipped with French types, for political reasons."

"Why did you leave?"

"Well, I was promoted to a desk job, and …" He hesitated and looked away, but continued, "– and my life began to fall apart and I was grounded permanently."

"Sorry to hear that," mumbled Peter, after which there was a slightly uncomfortable pause in the conversation, during which he drank his now lukewarm tea.

Fr Collins looked at his watch, and said, "Father, you said on the phone that there were things you needed to discuss with me. I think you should tell me what they are."

Reluctantly, Peter focused his thoughts, and tentatively began. "I need your help with discernment … about priesthood, I mean. My future, I mean. My calling."

Fr Collins was a little taken aback at this. "I see. Can you elaborate a little?"

Fr Collins sat down and Peter followed his example.

"I've wanted to be a priest for as long as I can remember. The more I learned about it during the training, the stronger the call seemed to be and the more certain I felt. The idea of living simply, of not allowing oneself to be rooted in this world, of witnessing to our fulfilment being in heaven and not in this world, seemed to match my personality, as if this is what I had been made for. When the decision came with my ordination as Deacon, the commitment to celibacy in order to be free to love all people without exclusion and better to project the forgiving and healing presence of the Lord seemed the natural thing to do. Certainly it seemed the clearest way to focus beyond the immediate concerns of the world, and … and I was comfortable with it. I really was. And I have been until recently.

Fearing the worst, Fr Collins asked, "What has brought this on?"

"Well, I have had some doctrinal concerns for quite a while, and that "sweating statues" fiasco really shocked me, but … I have fallen in love. That's not all …"

Fr Collins interrupted, "And does she love you? It is a 'she', I take it?"

Peter smiled, "Yes, it is a she. But does she love me? I don't know. I know she likes me, is fond of me. But does she love me as I love her? I just don't know. It's not something that I can ask, just like that."

"Have you done anything that you shouldn't have?" Fr Collins felt embarrassed at the way he had said that but was apprehensive about what the answer might be.

"No, honestly, I haven't."

Fr Collins thought about this. "Shouldn't you be talking this through with Fr MacAnally?" He was mindful that Fr Mac had bitten his head off more than once, for "interfering".

"There's too much antagonism between us for a meaningful conversation. Anyway, he has such a simplistic way of dealing with issues." He mimicked Fr Mac, "Something to test the mettle of my vocation."

"Nonetheless …"

"I did speak to him once before. He packed me off on retreat. I wish I hadn't taken his advice. It only evaded the issue. It was the worst thing I could have done."

"But I have no experience in counselling priests …"

"Father, there is no-one else I can turn to. You've been willing to help me before. Could you not hear me out? I don't want you to say or do anything that goes against your conscience."

Sensing the desperation in Peter's voice and manner, Fr Collins gestured for him to continue. "I interrupted you a moment ago, what were you going to day?

"I think I was … Another thing is that I am having trouble with the way people seem to regard me – friends, parishioners, even my family. It's all rather corrosive. I could ride it out when I wasn't having doubts about the future and what I am doing, but …"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Well take Fr Mac, he seems to regard me as the devil himself. He's never once praised anything I've done and it's pretty plain that he'd love to be rid of me."

"Well, he bites my head off too, on occasions. We are little wary of each other. I think he sees me as a different species: I was a late vocation; I'd made my way in the world first, had a family even. It's as if he thinks I cheated in some way. Now Fr O'Malley, he's different. He doesn't care about Fr Mac one way or the other. If Fr Mac says to preach that salvation comes through eating blue cheese, he'd go ahead and do it without a second thought! He has his own circle of friends and interests and his parishioners love him. By contrast, I'm something of a loner, as I think perhaps you are."

"No … I had thought of myself as gregarious. I find living alone very … not sure of the right word … lonely, I suppose, particularly late at night. I never thought I'd be putting the BBC World Service on for company in the night!"

"You were saying about friends."

"Most of my friends treat me as if being a priest is an unfortunate handicap. Parishioners sometimes seem to treat me as a trophy; they deny me the chance to be a human too. Even my own family seems reluctant to allow me to be both a human being and a priest. How on earth can I be _alter Christus_ if I am not allowed to be human?"

"How did things go at home?"

"Mum was marvellous. But she could tell that I was unhappy. I really didn't want to burden her with my troubles because she was so weak, but she got it out of me within five minutes. She said that the jokes and funny stories had vanished from my letters, and it was obvious that my work had gone from interesting and fun to a hard slog.

"She wasn't surprised that I had fallen in love, but she was surprised that I was in such doubt about the priesthood. She said that my late father would enjoy saying 'I told you so'. She said that she would be proud of me whatever I chose to do. But I could tell that she was disappointed.

"But what really got to me was what Fr Randall, her parish priest and my first posting, had said to her: when she got to heaven she was to pray hard for me because the death of his mother was always difficult for a celibate priest and often a time of transition. She had been showing him my letters, and, unknown to me, he had been getting phone calls from Fr Mac bellyaching about me; I think he had a very good idea of what had been going on – and he gave Fr Mac a good telling off over the sweating statue: if one of his statues had chip fat on it, he'd have washed it, not organised a collection and a procession! Anyway, she told him that she knew about the 'time of transition' and that she was praying hard for me already. I'm afraid I had a really good cry with her over that – made it easier for me when she did die soon after.

"My real problem was with my brothers and sisters-in-law. They seemed oblivious to my need to grieve as well as they, if not more so; I was supposed to be used to death and funerals. So, they had everything planned with me doing all the official things while they comforted each other. I was not allowed to be human – if I needed to weep, I had to hide in the toilet! Fr Randall could see what was happening and refused absolutely to go along with their plans – he played the high-handed parish priest and changed all their arrangements. I concelebrated with him and he preached, but I read the eulogy and assisted with the committal.

"The low point was after the burial when one of my sisters-in-law, triumphantly returned to me my ordination winding cloth. My mother had given it to Fr Randall to have it placed in her coffin; the funeral director had placed it in her hands. But dear Julia decided that this was not appropriate given that I might leave the priesthood and had it removed without my knowledge."

"That was very cruel."

"They couldn't even let me … That's one of the reasons I'm back early. If my own brothers can't see that this priest is a human being as well, how on earth can I expect to minister properly to the faithful? It makes a nonsense of what we are taught about the nature of priesthood."

Peter began to tick points off on his fingers: "I've thought about this, prayed about it, endlessly, and I've tried to leave my own agenda to one side. I've tried in prayer to imagine in my head and heart taking the decision to leave the priesthood and then how I would live and feel, given that I could then hope to express my love and have a response. But I can't get anywhere with that because there is so much I don't know – and there is something I need to ask you."

"Are you going through the six steps for discernment?"

"I have tried to. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. It's a structured way to try to reach the right decision."

"On the other hand, I've tried to imagine in my head and heart taking the decision to stay a priest and then how I would live and feel: the prospect is chilling. Having a better sense as I now do of what loving a special person can mean, the world looks bleak and barren for me … and very lonely if that is ruled out. I cannot see any happiness lies in that direction, even allowing the good I can do as a priest.

"I know that faith and prayer are supposed to redeem one from loneliness; but it hasn't for me and I just can't see it doing so. I remember being taught that a good priest must be at home in his own skin, content with his time alone, knowing and accepting his strengths and weaknesses. I am not comfortable being a priest in this skin!

"Our people are supposed to see in us priests the forgiving and healing presence of Christ. How could anyone possibly see in me that forgiving and healing presence? I'm a fraud."

"You seem to lack confidence, certainly, but my parishioners do see that in you!"

"I've prayed for light, to recognise which imagined decision is most positive, and I can't see how that can be other than to leave. But I am not sure I have the strength actually to do that, not that I am quite sure what's involved."

"I can't help you there. I would guess that you would have to speak to the bishop for that. Though I think there is an organisation, in England, that assists former priests."

"There's one other thing I need to ask you, Father. I've tried to keep this separate. What is it actually like to be in love and married?"

Fr Collins was astonished at the question and was a little flustered in his answer. "You know married couples. You saw your parents' relationship. Some of your friends are married. Your brothers are married, you said."

Peter hesitated before pressing the question. "I … I need a priest's reflection on what it's like to be married, first hand. I know you were married before you became a priest."

"That's not something I speak about."

There was a distinctly uncomfortable silence. Peter looked at the floor. Fr Collins rose from his seat and walked over to the window that overlooked the garden.

"I'm sorry, Father, I shouldn't have asked. I didn't mean to pry, or to raise sad memories."

Peter looked up anxiously at Fr Collins, who still stood at the window, his back to Peter, seemingly deep in thought.

Eventually he spoke. "This morning I said Mass for the repose of her soul. It would have been our 20th wedding anniversary today."

After another pause, he continued in a quiet, distant voice, and answered Peter's question. "Having an anchor. Always knowing which way is up. One person that you always worry for. Knowing that there is one person who has you at the centre of their life, who always worries about you. Someone who makes you a better person than you could be on your own and whom you make better than they could be on their own. You don't have to say you're sorry, you just be sorry. Having a point of reference, however lost or confused you are. Your share in the love of God, being their share in the love of God. Together or apart, you belong - time and space don't matter. In cloud they're your artificial horizon. Your joy. Your pearl of great price. Being called into oneness with a soulmate."

He turned to face Peter.

"I'm so sorry, Father."

"No need, Father. We're still together."

"Do you have children?"

"Not in this life."

Without thinking, Peter asked immediately, "What happened?"

"Teresa was stillborn. Sinead was dead within six months. Ovarian cancer."

Peter shook his head, regretting that he had raised these memories.

Fr Collins continued, "Don't feel bad about this. It is good to speak about these things, sometimes, to someone who can appreciate the happiness as well as the sadness.

"Thank you." He was seeing Fr Collins in a very new light.

"Peter, you do have a wonderful ability to get people to open up! You are a good priest. Just look at the impact you had on my people with that sermon on the Eucharist. I've never been able to do that. Are you really going to throw all that away?"

"I'm not throwing anything away. I'm living a pretence. I want to live fully. And you know the saying that a lamp glows brightest just before it fails? I think that was my last glow."

After a pause, Peter continued, "How on earth can an obviously lonely, sad, dysfunctional and tired priest be an encouragement to people? Surely their reaction would be 'if that's living a Christian life then it's not for me!'"

"It's true that some of us need the intimate love of a woman, with all that entails, to achieve a wholeness, a maturity, to be a rounded and fully human person … however, intense the spiritual life. That's their psychological make up, and at bottom unchangeable." He paused before continuing, "I rather think that I was like that – I'd considered the priesthood when I was leaving school, but I just had the gut feeling that the celibate life wasn't for me, at that time anyway, and then Sinead came along. But, I've been lucky enough to have both."

Both sat thinking. The silence was broken by the telephone ringing. Fr Collins looked at his watch. It was half past seven already. He picked up the handset.

"St Kevin's. Hello? … Hello, Fred … Yeah, sorry, I forgot."

Fr Collins turned to face Peter. "We're invited to supper, pot roast lamb. Are you able to join us?"

"I don't think so. I've said I'll meet Dr Ryan and some others at about ten, and it's a couple of hour's walk."

"Don't worry, I'll run you over there in the car."

"Fine. Thank you very much."

"Fred? Yes, we'll both be delighted to accept. See you about eight? … God bless."

Peter asked, "Who will we be dining with?"

"Fred O'Neil. He lives just up the street. He's an old friend of mine. We were in the Air Corps together. He does an excellent pot roast!"

There was another silence as the thoughts of both returned to Peter's dilemma.

"Look, Peter, I'm out of my depth on this one. But I do appreciate that you need to talk this through and you are not blessed with an abundance of suitable counsellors over here. I can see that you really are trying to get to grips with this as honestly as you can.

"I find it difficult to accept that the will of God has changed – I don't know where we are if God's will is changeable – but as you say, our perception of God's will can and does change, and perhaps the celibate ministry _was_ a mistake for you. You have got to ask yourself, though, whether the issue is actually your failure to have made the radical surrender to our mission that as priests we are called to make, and that is more difficult especially now that you have a more concrete appreciation of what it is that you have undertaken to forego. I'm sorry to sound provocative.

"No, I …"

"If I can be even more provocative: are you absolutely sure that you are not acting a bit like the rich young man of Mark 10 asking 'What must I do to inherit eternal life?', and being unhappy with the answer and 'going sadly away' because he has _so much_ to give up?

"It's a thought …"

"But I'm certain of this: you can't make any kind of decision in the abstract. You are going to have to find out, somehow, whether your love is returned, and take it from there. But it's not going to be easy. I'll help in any way I can, but I really think that the best help I can give is to pray for you. You need expert counselling, if not here in Ireland then back home."

Peter pressed his lips as he pondered the advice. "You're right. Thanks, it's been such a relief to have a sympathetic listener."

"Come on, it's time for supper. Let's talk about something else. How's that second-rate football team that you support been doing?"

Peter picked up his rucksack and followed Fr Collins through the door, swinging it shut after him. "Second rate! I'll have you know …"

_**Acknowledgement**__ I have borrowed fragments and phrases from the talks and writings of John Regan, Kevin Doran, Stephen Fawcett, Andrew Krivak, __Austen Ivereigh __and Benedict XVI._

14


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